


halcyon

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Mostly Gen, Phone Calls & Telephones, Season/Series 04, Sleepiness, drunk Martin, set somewhere recent in this season but before 154
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 08:24:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20757329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: hal·cy·on | /ˈhalsēən/ | adjectivetranquil period of happinessBut Jon is interested. This– thisrattling onhad been endlessly annoying before, distracting at the best of times and infuriating at the worst, but… God, now it’s just soothing. Jon rests his head on his pillow and listens to Martin talk about things he doesn’t understand– and it’s… nice.





	halcyon

Jon’s _ livid _ when his phone starts vibrating at half one in the morning. His fault for not silencing it, but that’s harder and harder to do these days when danger is always imminent and he rarely goes home as it is. And there’s the nagging sensation that he doesn’t need to sleep at all these days, but he refuses to accept that because he’s always so goddamn tired– point being, he’s at home, _ in bed, _ when his phone starts buzzing, and it had better be an emergency because if not, he’s going to be _ really _ angry–

Martin’s name is on the Caller ID. Jon nearly drops the phone in his haste to answer it.

“Martin? Is everything okay?”

_ “Jon!” _ Jon sort of freezes, because Martin sounds too… _ happy. _ And it’s not as if Jon doesn’t want him to be, of course he does. He really… _ really _ wants Martin to be happy, these days now more than ever. It’s just… he never _ is _ happy. None of them are. _ “What’s up??” _

“I…” _was sleeping._ _You called me._ The words die on his tongue. Despite the fact that it is absolutely not the time for a phone call, Jon can’t quite bring himself to burst Martin’s bubble. Besides, he’s having a hard time hashing out his own thought processes at the moment. “Is something the matter?” he asks instead.

_ “Oh! No! Well, I mean, Peter said we were having potluck and I should have known _ that _ was a lie, so it was kinda awkward when I was waiting on you all to show up!” _

“Oh.” Peter’s idea of a joke, probably. Or a… reassertion of his dominance over Martin, the power of The Lonely that he was maintaining his hold over him with. Proving he was lonely just to prove he _ could. _ “Martin…”

_ “No, it’s okay! There was booze. Lots of booze!” _ Oh. Now Jon understands. _ “Not that I– I mean, I’d still like to have a potluck with you guys! But I’m not– not really an archival assistant anymore, so, I _ technically _ can’t have potluck with you since I don’t _ work _ with you.” _

Jon wonders when Martin had _ really _ stopped considering himself archival assistant, if Peter had given him the specific role. He wonders if Martin had started declaring himself as _ assistant to Peter Lukas _ around about the time Jon had stopped referring to himself as _ Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute. _ It’s not really good, either way.

Part of him _ wants _ to be annoyed by Martin’s drunk dialling. That part’s making a good faith effort for sure, but this is… this is also the most Martin’s really _ spoken _ to him in the past few… months.

Jon holds onto the phone a bit tighter. “How much did you have to drink, Martin?”

_ “Oh! Not much. Just enough. I was a bit angry at myself for falling for it. Stupid, you know.” _

“No…”

_ “Yeah. Like, why would _ The Lonely _ have a party? No amount of anchovies on pizza’ll make _ Peter _ show up to a party–” _

“Martin.” Jon doesn’t know how to handle drunk people. He guesses it’s good that Martin’s aware enough to have a conversation with him. It’s _ really _ good, actually. “Are you still at the Institute?”

_ “No. God! No! I have to go home. I have to clock off. If I stay, it’s just an invitation for him to, like, have me reroute connections or teach him YouTube. It’s bad. Like, really bad. I don’t think computers work well with Lonely, which is funny, because half the people online _ are _ lonely–” _

Jon has to interrupt again. “Martin,” he says, and tries to impress as much urgency as he can while he’s still half asleep himself, “have you made it home?”

_ “Yeah! Yeah, I’m home.” _ Martin laughs, and Jon’s fingers ache, clutched around the phone. _ “I mean, inasmuch as it is, right? I’ve been home. Why? Were you worried?” _

“Yes,” Jon breathes, before he can stop himself. He isn’t sure he wants to, anyway. He hasn’t seen Martin so unhinged in _ ages, _ and he doesn’t feel quite up to holding himself to the usual standards, either. He wants to shake him and tell him to run, tell him that he doesn’t have to be lonely, and that things will be okay.

But that’s the exhaustion talking. They can’t run, and he can’t tell Martin how to feel. That asides, he’s absolutely incapable of saying that _ anything _ will be okay. Actually, he’s pretty sure it never will be.

_ “Aw.” _ Martin laughs again. There’s noise in the background, shuffling and glassware and a solitary _ click _ Jon knows familiar as the kettle. Because, of course, after drinking copious amounts of alcohol, _ tea _ is the way to go. Jon can’t even be faintly irked; he’s just… God, he misses Martin. _ “Kind of you to worry, but I’m fine! I’m always fine!” _

“Martin…” Christ, he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to say. He wants to know why Martin’s called, but that sounds accusatory and he probably _ hasn’t _ called for any reason. The dangers of drunk dialing.

Luckily, Martin fills the silence. 

He starts off talking about work, and Peter, and The Lonely. (But never The Extinction. Jon wonders what part of his consciousness is keeping that under lock and key.) Then a bit about his new kettle, and the dodgy one at work, and the brand of tea and cider from an orchard he visited when he twelve. Useless things, really, but Martin hasn’t… spoken to anyone in a long while, either, Jon thinks.

God, they’re both lonely. If he hadn’t been claimed by The Eye, Jon’s almost positive the Lukas family would have come for him, too.

He’s almost jealous of the way that Martin can _ talk, _ how he can fill the silence with meaningless babble and just… keep going. Sometimes, it doesn’t sound like he even stops to take a breath, and God knows Jon isn’t great at reacting on a good day but even less so gone two am. He’d eased back down into the pillows when Martin had started, and hadn’t stopped, and all he’d had to keep doing was give a vaguely interested noise and Martin kept on speaking.

But Jon is interested. This– this _ rattling on _ had been endlessly annoying before, distracting at the best of times and infuriating at the worst, but… God, now it’s just soothing. Jon rests his head on his pillow and listens to Martin talk about things he doesn’t understand– fan conventions and salt-water sea life and William Blake’s mental state– and it’s… nice.

He isn’t sure when Martin trails off into silence, but it’s nearly startling when he does. The silence hurts. Jon breaks it. “Martin?”

_ “Hmm?” _

“Oh.” He fumbles a little, but he’s really too tired to be properly embarrassed. “Just– you stopped talking.”

_ “My throat just kinda hurts, a bit? I think I’ve talked too much. Ha.” _

“Oh,” Jon repeats. For once, he wants him to talk more. “Another cuppa?” he suggests, even though it’s an unholy time for tea. He doesn’t even check the time. He’d put his phone on speaker so he hadn’t needed to keep holding onto it, and doesn’t feel like shifting it enough to squint at the display. It’s late. It’s so very late.

_ “Maybe,” _ Martin says. _ “But bed is comfy.” _

“Oh,” he says, for the third time. Jon clears his throat, and tries to form something more articulate than a singular syllable. “You can go to sleep, Martin.” _ I should as well, _ he doesn’t say.

_ “Nah. I’m not tired.” _

“You just said you were comfortable.”

_ “I _ am_,” _ Martin drowses. _ “Bed is nice, like? Finally sinking in and pulling a blanket over you. It’s… good.” _

He tries to be the responsible one, for once. He tries to hit the right intonation when he says “you should sleep.”

_ “Nooo, I’m just… I’m just _ laying _ here, for a bit, until I wanna change, that’s okay.” _

He wants to be responsible. But he isn’t responsible, and he wants Martin to stay on the phone. “Okay,” Jon relents, and they both lapse back into silence again.

He thinks, if he tries, he can hear Martin breathing. It’s odd, really. If he thinks about Martin, in his own flat, laying in his own bed, wrapped up in his own mess of blankets, it makes something twist in his chest. And Jon doesn’t get it. Not really. But it’s a definite feeling, and something vaguely sad but also vaguely… _ hopeful, _ head resting on his pillow and just listening to Martin breathe.

He doubts it’ll feel that way come morning, but he doesn’t care what will come with the sunrise. He’s tired, and comfortable, too, right now.

“Martin…?”

_ “Mm?” _

“Thought maybe you’d fallen asleep.”

_ “I’m not sleepy.” _ Martin yawns directly into the phone, or so it sounds like. Jon laughs, soft and brief, and he doesn’t think Martin even notices. _ “Okay, maybe I’m a _ little _ sleepy,” _ Martin admits, and there’s rustling, and a mattress creaking, and fabric shifting. Martin’s flat must have good acoustics, Jon thinks absently.

“You should go to sleep,” he says, again, and Martin, again, protests.

_ “I’m fine. _ You’re _ the one who always looks so _ tired_.” _

“I am always tired,” Jon admits, even if he doesn’t need to sleep, even if he doesn’t _ want _ to sleep, half the time anymore, he is… usually tired. In one way or the other.

_ “You should sleep,” _ Martin says, stubborn, and Jon garbles some nondescript noise of vague acknowledgment. 

He should. He doesn’t, he doesn’t think.

_ “– Jon?” _ Or maybe he had been.

“… what?” he manages.

_ “What’s the… the kinda cologne you have?” _

“I…” His mind scrambles to figure what he’s missed, but he can’t find it. And he doesn’t know what Martin’s talking about. He doesn’t wear cologne. “I don’t know,” he says pathetically, and can’t open his eyes.

_ “Is good,” _ Martin mumbles. _ “You smell good.” _

The conversation is so ludicrous, Jon can’t help but laugh. It’s not funny, and he doesn’t have the energy. He wonders if that’s what other people think about. What colognes they use, and how they look when they relax in sleep.

It takes a minute (a few minutes? longer?) before he realizes it’s quiet again. It’s startling every time, in its way. He shakes himself mentally, and has to lick his lips to speak, groggy and slow. “Martin…?”

Nothing.

Jon blinks his eyes open, just for a second. There’s nothing to see. He’s alone. “Martin?” he whispers. There’s no response, save the quiet, stuffy inhale-exhale, rhythmic, from the other end of the line. He can’t keep his eyes open. Seems like Martin hadn’t been able to, either.

Christ, sleep sounds nice. As nice as the steady breathing of a dozing Martin, even.

Jon will force his eyes open in a moment, and he’ll grab his phone and end the call. But… he’ll do that in a moment. Martin’s breathing is relaxing, and Jon’s too at peace to try and shatter that just yet.

He falls asleep to the sound of Martin’s breathing, and he sleeps the best he’s slept in years.

**Author's Note:**

> > emperio: eventually he quiets down and they just listen to one another breathing, maybe mumbling something every so often to keep themselves awake
>> 
>> me: excuse me
> 
> then martin wakes up with a three hour call logged with Jon but he can't remember any of it through the hangover


End file.
